I had a dream last night that I had posted to my blog, and somebody - can't remember who - commented and said, "that was wonderful, I loved reading it... This is why you should post to your blog!"
But, alas, I cannot remember what I wrote so effectively about... my dreams are of limited guidance, I'm afraid. (But did I ever tell you about my "Mean Year" dream? and the call number I can almost remember?)
William's countdown clock to our departure is down to a day and change.
Soon we're going to go try to sell back some books now - and then I will try to resist buying more books - and I'm afraid I am already anticipating failure. And then abbey road, and then -
Then stripping down four months from the walls and packing them back into suitcases. It's strange that time passes, but stranger, I think, to think that such a thing is strange.
I was reading the other day of a new upstart idea in physics, possibly the start of a new debate where the disputed territory is time itself. If I recall correctly, and we all know brains are leaky things, multiverse theories suggest that time is not essential - we can view all things as coexisting, with time not necessarily a fundamental property of the universe. But some dude was arguing that maybe we should instead pursue the idea that there's just one universe, and that time - passing by, whoosh, there it goes - is an inherent component of this universe, part of its warp and weft. Everything that's real is only real for a moment, and the laws of physics themselves, being tied to time, could change over time (because what doesn't?)
Everything real just for a moment, and not preserved in some eternal timeless coexistence of all things - whoosh, there it goes. Strange, but stranger to think it strange - isn't this the world we all know?
All the thing's we've missed, that we didn't see when we blinked or missed a turn or stayed home with a cough, make William say, "We'll have to come back!" but - knowing how way leads on to way - well, really, it's impossible, you know. It's not simply that the place is different, always changing, but that you're different. Always changing. And seven years later if you trace your footsteps, you're a new person following the path of a vaguely-familiar stranger. And your eyes are new and the stones are that much older, and you've read new things, and thought about new things, and the infinite information before your eyes, you sift it in new ways. What you see, what you think, is different - what you feel is entirely different...
So, yes, don't ever count on coming back. But it's nothing to be sad about - not really. What good would a world be where every step took you back where you'd been before? Where all your breaths were taken as one, simultaneously, where you were everybody you ever had been and ever would be - stagnating eternally - or oh, splitting infinitely, how much worse to be everyone you ever could be?
(sorry i could not travel both/ and be one traveler, long I stood...)
What was I saying? Four months have gone by quickly. And five years, for that matter - and seven - but then again, perhaps they haven't gone by quickly at all. They've just gone. And here I am, and it's time to sell back books I've already read (can you read the same book twice?)
And my tea is cold (entropy in a porcelain cup). Time to stop typing.
Showing posts with label incoherant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label incoherant. Show all posts
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
cuts, veils and gypsies
These are interesting times to be living in England - or in Europe - but then again, is every place, always, an interesting time to be living there, if you look hard enough? I suspect so... though I am hardly convinced... but at any rate, one needn't look hard here and now.
Today, during my anthropology class, we were terribly distracted by the sounds of protest in the streets outside as a march slowly gathered strength, furiously decrying the brutal cuts that were finally announced today. They've been prognosticated for years, and the coalition government has been bracing the British people for them for ages now, using language strongly reminiscent of the Blitz: we're all in this together, sacrifice for the sake of the country, buckle down and we'll make it through, that sort of thing. "Tough but fair" is the rather well-crafted slogan they've chosen, but some folks seem hesitant - but based on my observations, despite the protests, most people here seem to think that, unpleasant though they might be, something is necessary, isn't it?
So the cuts are inevitable, just like it's inevitable that unless a miracle is flying our way, at some point America, too, will have to tighten our belts... but it sure isn't fun, and students are disruptively banging on drums to mark their disapproval.
Of course, this is nothing compared to what's happening in France - here in London I've yet to see a single car on fire, a single violent battle between hooded youths and cops, a single freeway incapacitated by furious lorry drivers. No, the protests in London - protesting massive cuts across almost all areas of government expenditures - are NOTHING compared to how Paris reacts to a threat to raise the retirement age from 60 to 62. Yes, you read that right.
But how do Britons respond to this difference? A flatmate, a professor and a newspaper columnist all agree: "We have a lot to learn from the French." I kid you not! They wish that they had the gumption to set a few cars on fire to express their displeasure - figure that if they were willing to go quite that far, maybe they'd get the amount of time off the French do - but I suppose it's just not in the British character. They don't think it is, anyway, and maybe that's all that matters.
Meanwhile, of course, a deeper conflict seems to be brewing - yes, even deeper than this very meaningful encounter between socialism and capitalism, the welfare state and the deficit, the bleeding hearts and the empty wallets of the state - even deeper than that, there is a serious crisis of liberalism all across Europe.
Did you know that Angela Merkel has declared multiculturalism to be dead? That France - having already banned the niqab in public areas - has proceeded from alienating Muslims to directly ejecting the Gypsies? The Roma have been cast out of France, and if that seems like a headline from five hundred years ago, well. Welcome to modern-day, liberal, tolerant Western Europe.
In Sweden, the neo-Nazis have broken into parliament. The Danes beat them to it. In the Netherlands, Geert Wilders is being put on trial for vicious anti-Muslim speech - protecting free speech vs. punishing a xenophobic demagogue, and half the populace doesn't seem to know which side to root for.
Did I mention that Angela Merkel has declared multiculturalism to be dead?
Meanwhile, the Guardian asks, "Whatever happened to the good Europeans, those nice folks in small northern countries who liked to think of themselves as the world champions of liberty and tolerance?" But I would argue that Britain has not yet decided where it will fall on the spectrum - the immigration laws have been tightened, Americanized, even, and while the country rallies behind a reality TV star of questionably legal presence, it also debates the death of a deportee and how much responsibility the state bears towards new arrivals, and - of course - the headscarf, the niqab and the burqa. Britain debates with less vitriol, fewer bans and much more politeness than the Continent is displaying - once again, no cars on fire here - but not, I would argue, with a clear impending verdict.
It's as though Western Europe is asking: Do we continue the grand cultural experiment of liberalism, multiculturalism, religious tolerance and polyglot international cities? Or do we throw it aside, kick out all Muslims (if you think I'm exaggerating, you haven't been reading enough about the Geert Wilders trial) and brace ourselves for war?
Keep an eye out - the public's fickle opinion could yet fall either way.
Today, during my anthropology class, we were terribly distracted by the sounds of protest in the streets outside as a march slowly gathered strength, furiously decrying the brutal cuts that were finally announced today. They've been prognosticated for years, and the coalition government has been bracing the British people for them for ages now, using language strongly reminiscent of the Blitz: we're all in this together, sacrifice for the sake of the country, buckle down and we'll make it through, that sort of thing. "Tough but fair" is the rather well-crafted slogan they've chosen, but some folks seem hesitant - but based on my observations, despite the protests, most people here seem to think that, unpleasant though they might be, something is necessary, isn't it?
So the cuts are inevitable, just like it's inevitable that unless a miracle is flying our way, at some point America, too, will have to tighten our belts... but it sure isn't fun, and students are disruptively banging on drums to mark their disapproval.
Of course, this is nothing compared to what's happening in France - here in London I've yet to see a single car on fire, a single violent battle between hooded youths and cops, a single freeway incapacitated by furious lorry drivers. No, the protests in London - protesting massive cuts across almost all areas of government expenditures - are NOTHING compared to how Paris reacts to a threat to raise the retirement age from 60 to 62. Yes, you read that right.
But how do Britons respond to this difference? A flatmate, a professor and a newspaper columnist all agree: "We have a lot to learn from the French." I kid you not! They wish that they had the gumption to set a few cars on fire to express their displeasure - figure that if they were willing to go quite that far, maybe they'd get the amount of time off the French do - but I suppose it's just not in the British character. They don't think it is, anyway, and maybe that's all that matters.
Meanwhile, of course, a deeper conflict seems to be brewing - yes, even deeper than this very meaningful encounter between socialism and capitalism, the welfare state and the deficit, the bleeding hearts and the empty wallets of the state - even deeper than that, there is a serious crisis of liberalism all across Europe.
Did you know that Angela Merkel has declared multiculturalism to be dead? That France - having already banned the niqab in public areas - has proceeded from alienating Muslims to directly ejecting the Gypsies? The Roma have been cast out of France, and if that seems like a headline from five hundred years ago, well. Welcome to modern-day, liberal, tolerant Western Europe.
In Sweden, the neo-Nazis have broken into parliament. The Danes beat them to it. In the Netherlands, Geert Wilders is being put on trial for vicious anti-Muslim speech - protecting free speech vs. punishing a xenophobic demagogue, and half the populace doesn't seem to know which side to root for.
Did I mention that Angela Merkel has declared multiculturalism to be dead?
Meanwhile, the Guardian asks, "Whatever happened to the good Europeans, those nice folks in small northern countries who liked to think of themselves as the world champions of liberty and tolerance?" But I would argue that Britain has not yet decided where it will fall on the spectrum - the immigration laws have been tightened, Americanized, even, and while the country rallies behind a reality TV star of questionably legal presence, it also debates the death of a deportee and how much responsibility the state bears towards new arrivals, and - of course - the headscarf, the niqab and the burqa. Britain debates with less vitriol, fewer bans and much more politeness than the Continent is displaying - once again, no cars on fire here - but not, I would argue, with a clear impending verdict.
It's as though Western Europe is asking: Do we continue the grand cultural experiment of liberalism, multiculturalism, religious tolerance and polyglot international cities? Or do we throw it aside, kick out all Muslims (if you think I'm exaggerating, you haven't been reading enough about the Geert Wilders trial) and brace ourselves for war?
Keep an eye out - the public's fickle opinion could yet fall either way.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Guimaras island and a bad resort
So today I decided to take a vacation. I had to really talk myself into it... I mean, I'm not here for vacation! I'm here for research! And EVERY DAY there's something I could be doing!
But as of last night, my best-case scenario schedule for today involved touring a coal-fired power plant and interviewing a disaster-relief activist... neither of which, you will note, is really related to my research subject. And I was tired. And stressed out. And, apparently, emotionally drained or something. And Guimaras Island was 15 minutes away, and there was a beach resort highly recommended by my guidebook that cost exactly 2 dollars more than my cheap downtown hotel, so what other excuses did I have, huh? huh?
And after that antagonist exchange with myself I packed my bags, boarded a boat, and went on a beautiful tricycle ride through the mango-growing, rainforested island of Guimaras. (Maybe this would be a good time to note that tricycles are motorcycles with passenger-carrying attachments... like sidecars on steroids. Not, actually, little red trikes for kids. Just to clarify).
So I arrived at this resort - a collection of individual bamboo cottages on an idyllic cove - to find it was empty. Almost completely empty... me, two staff members, a cat, a dog, and a bunch of chickens comprised the entire guest list. Furthermore, what my Lonely Planet described as a "warm, friendly, family-run" resort was looking kind of like a poorly-maintained, poorly-managed dump. A dump, I will note, on an absolutely BEAUTIFUL patch of real estate. I reminded myself of this after finding bird shit on my bed, and discovering that the resort's sole (!) snorkel mask was leaky, and that they no longer had sailboats to rent out, and that even the hammocks were old and absurdly uncomfortable. Also, it was raining. I am really good at taking vacations, friends. Anyway, I told myself, look at the turquoise water! And the sandy beach! The rocky cliffside, the view from your balcony, the rainforest!
And the food is delicious - fresh fish and shrimp and crabs, cooked by some guy who for some reason won't put on anything but boxer shorts but is, whatever his attire, a hell of a chef. So, as you can imagine, that has cheered me up enormously.
Tonight at dinner - oh man am I bad at eating crabs, in case you were wondering, they are like tiny scraps of deliciousness trapped in STEEL SAFES - I learned the reasoning behind the resort's failing condition. It turns out it is not just that Lonely Planet sucks... this is, in fact, what happens to a warm family-run operation when the marriage at the heart of that family falls apart. In a country where divorce is illegal.
My dinner companions (who eventually arrived to break the scary silence of a resort with only me in it) were a charming Spainard, his friendly Filipina girlfriend and her two sisters. Side note - this is a really discombobulated post, sorry for my lack of structure, I'M ON VACATION - I got to practice my spanish! His English seemed about as good - which is to say as weak - as my Spanish, so either we talked in English and he pretended to understand, or we talked in Spanish and I pretended to understand, and I think I was a better faker. Have you ever tried to have a discussion about the current economy of China and the reasons behind the American embargo on Cuba... in Spanish? Have you?? It is hard. Now you know.
His girlfriend, of course, showed us both up by being fluent in English and Spanish. And Ilonggo. And, I presume, Tagalog. Oh, and working on Chinese. And also she was beautiful and clearly brilliant. God damn.
ANYWAY, he is filthy rich or something because he said he has been trying to talk the owners into selling the place to him, but there's lots of legal complications what with them being separated at all. And suddenly it all made more sense - why guests were avoiding it, why the place was falling apart (because why invest in something you aren't sure if you'll own for much longer, and when if you sell, you'll only get 50% of the value?) and why the owners weren't there and even some weird parts about the text-versation i'd had to reserve my room.
But a failed marriage cannot make Guimaras less beautiful, I am pleased to report, nor can it make fresh seafood less inherently delicious, nor the sound of the waves less relaxing. So the report from the Philippines today is, if not an unqualified and enthusiastic shout for joy, at least a peaceful sigh.
But as of last night, my best-case scenario schedule for today involved touring a coal-fired power plant and interviewing a disaster-relief activist... neither of which, you will note, is really related to my research subject. And I was tired. And stressed out. And, apparently, emotionally drained or something. And Guimaras Island was 15 minutes away, and there was a beach resort highly recommended by my guidebook that cost exactly 2 dollars more than my cheap downtown hotel, so what other excuses did I have, huh? huh?
And after that antagonist exchange with myself I packed my bags, boarded a boat, and went on a beautiful tricycle ride through the mango-growing, rainforested island of Guimaras. (Maybe this would be a good time to note that tricycles are motorcycles with passenger-carrying attachments... like sidecars on steroids. Not, actually, little red trikes for kids. Just to clarify).
So I arrived at this resort - a collection of individual bamboo cottages on an idyllic cove - to find it was empty. Almost completely empty... me, two staff members, a cat, a dog, and a bunch of chickens comprised the entire guest list. Furthermore, what my Lonely Planet described as a "warm, friendly, family-run" resort was looking kind of like a poorly-maintained, poorly-managed dump. A dump, I will note, on an absolutely BEAUTIFUL patch of real estate. I reminded myself of this after finding bird shit on my bed, and discovering that the resort's sole (!) snorkel mask was leaky, and that they no longer had sailboats to rent out, and that even the hammocks were old and absurdly uncomfortable. Also, it was raining. I am really good at taking vacations, friends. Anyway, I told myself, look at the turquoise water! And the sandy beach! The rocky cliffside, the view from your balcony, the rainforest!
And the food is delicious - fresh fish and shrimp and crabs, cooked by some guy who for some reason won't put on anything but boxer shorts but is, whatever his attire, a hell of a chef. So, as you can imagine, that has cheered me up enormously.
Tonight at dinner - oh man am I bad at eating crabs, in case you were wondering, they are like tiny scraps of deliciousness trapped in STEEL SAFES - I learned the reasoning behind the resort's failing condition. It turns out it is not just that Lonely Planet sucks... this is, in fact, what happens to a warm family-run operation when the marriage at the heart of that family falls apart. In a country where divorce is illegal.
My dinner companions (who eventually arrived to break the scary silence of a resort with only me in it) were a charming Spainard, his friendly Filipina girlfriend and her two sisters. Side note - this is a really discombobulated post, sorry for my lack of structure, I'M ON VACATION - I got to practice my spanish! His English seemed about as good - which is to say as weak - as my Spanish, so either we talked in English and he pretended to understand, or we talked in Spanish and I pretended to understand, and I think I was a better faker. Have you ever tried to have a discussion about the current economy of China and the reasons behind the American embargo on Cuba... in Spanish? Have you?? It is hard. Now you know.
His girlfriend, of course, showed us both up by being fluent in English and Spanish. And Ilonggo. And, I presume, Tagalog. Oh, and working on Chinese. And also she was beautiful and clearly brilliant. God damn.
ANYWAY, he is filthy rich or something because he said he has been trying to talk the owners into selling the place to him, but there's lots of legal complications what with them being separated at all. And suddenly it all made more sense - why guests were avoiding it, why the place was falling apart (because why invest in something you aren't sure if you'll own for much longer, and when if you sell, you'll only get 50% of the value?) and why the owners weren't there and even some weird parts about the text-versation i'd had to reserve my room.
But a failed marriage cannot make Guimaras less beautiful, I am pleased to report, nor can it make fresh seafood less inherently delicious, nor the sound of the waves less relaxing. So the report from the Philippines today is, if not an unqualified and enthusiastic shout for joy, at least a peaceful sigh.
Friday, June 25, 2010
a taxi ride
I had just finished chewing out my taxi driver for the high price of a ride from the airport - which was a mistake, it wasn't his fault, the company set the standard price, i knew it and i know, i know, i shouldn't have. I blame my hunger and my intense lack of sleep - I hadn't slept a wink the whole night, in bed or on the plane, and my head hurt like hell, and traveling wasn't feeling very fun any more. In fact, I blame my lack of sleep for the whole business.
After a lengthy and not-particularly-amicable silence from me, the taxi driver spoke up. "From Manila, ma'am?"
"No, Davao." Another grumpy silence, and he tried again.
"Your first time in Iloilo?"
"Yes," I said, and paused. "But my grandfather is from the area."
"Ah, whereabouts?"
I faltered. "I... I don't actually know." Another pause, and I blurted out, "He's dying."
I fell back into silence, now more shocked than sullen, completely surprised by myself.
"Are you coming back for the funeral?"
"No," I said, and swallowed. "He's back home in the states. And I'm here," I said, and laughed a little, except suddenly I was crying, too, and that was another surprise.
And I was still talking and I didn't know why. "He's back in America and I'm here and I'm worried," I choked out, "I'm worried I won't get to say goodbye," and suddenly I was sobbing. The driver didn't say a word, but he might have given me a sympathetic glance or something, I don't know, because I wasn't looking. I was staring down at the plush red seats and saying to myself, "Breathe, Camila, breathe. This isn't productive at all." And crying. Still crying.
8 am, Friday morning, my first day in Iloilo.
After a lengthy and not-particularly-amicable silence from me, the taxi driver spoke up. "From Manila, ma'am?"
"No, Davao." Another grumpy silence, and he tried again.
"Your first time in Iloilo?"
"Yes," I said, and paused. "But my grandfather is from the area."
"Ah, whereabouts?"
I faltered. "I... I don't actually know." Another pause, and I blurted out, "He's dying."
I fell back into silence, now more shocked than sullen, completely surprised by myself.
"Are you coming back for the funeral?"
"No," I said, and swallowed. "He's back home in the states. And I'm here," I said, and laughed a little, except suddenly I was crying, too, and that was another surprise.
And I was still talking and I didn't know why. "He's back in America and I'm here and I'm worried," I choked out, "I'm worried I won't get to say goodbye," and suddenly I was sobbing. The driver didn't say a word, but he might have given me a sympathetic glance or something, I don't know, because I wasn't looking. I was staring down at the plush red seats and saying to myself, "Breathe, Camila, breathe. This isn't productive at all." And crying. Still crying.
8 am, Friday morning, my first day in Iloilo.
Monday, June 7, 2010
attempt 2
So, I'm really tired right now. Probably because I slept in twenty-minute snatches every night for the past three nights.
But had some more amazing interviews - both today with women from GABRIELA, a more radical group than the others I've been talking to, so they discussed the semi-colonial, semi-feudal state of the Philippines a lot more. It's been really interesting seeing the conflicts, divisions and disagreements between groups that at first glance seem to be working for the same thing. For instance, two activists both fighting violence against women can be fiercely opposed to each other's work. if one sees culture as the root caues of VAW, and the other sees economic and political structures, then they can both be working to help battered women, but through methods that actually work at cross-purposes. this is of course a blatant oversimplification, however.
I'm running into this problem that everything I can say about any of this is a blatant oversimplification.
But wait, that's another issue. what was I wanting to write about again? ARRRRRRR i have an interview tomorrow at 8:30 i'm going to get MAYBE seven hours of sleep tonight and i need approximately 20. wtf.
Okay. one more post. a short, specific, more narrative, more interesting one. GO, camila, go.
But had some more amazing interviews - both today with women from GABRIELA, a more radical group than the others I've been talking to, so they discussed the semi-colonial, semi-feudal state of the Philippines a lot more. It's been really interesting seeing the conflicts, divisions and disagreements between groups that at first glance seem to be working for the same thing. For instance, two activists both fighting violence against women can be fiercely opposed to each other's work. if one sees culture as the root caues of VAW, and the other sees economic and political structures, then they can both be working to help battered women, but through methods that actually work at cross-purposes. this is of course a blatant oversimplification, however.
I'm running into this problem that everything I can say about any of this is a blatant oversimplification.
But wait, that's another issue. what was I wanting to write about again? ARRRRRRR i have an interview tomorrow at 8:30 i'm going to get MAYBE seven hours of sleep tonight and i need approximately 20. wtf.
Okay. one more post. a short, specific, more narrative, more interesting one. GO, camila, go.
attempt 1
i am very tired. like, davidson-level tired... and i guess i should acknowledge the existence of davidson students who actually sleep enough to sustain themselves but really they're practically mythical beings. i was roommates with a unicorn is what i'm saying.
wait, what am i saying?
i think I was saying i am tired. that's it. i'm tired. those three night buses in a row are catching up with me and it ain't pretty. (speaking of not being pretty, why is everybody i interview freaking gorgeous?? it's another post as well as being a blatant stereotype but these women manage to have perfect makeup in the middle of the afternoon on a 95-degree day with humidity so high the walls drip and they don't break a sweat, their hair is perfect, their skin is beautiful and i'm standing in the middle of the train covered in sweat, my hair a mess, simultaneously sunburnt and ghastly pale (it's a feat) and realizing for the first time in my life that my cheekbones are wholly inadequate and let's not even talk about my eyes. and yet the women on the billboards look more like me than like anybody else I see, hair brown instead of black, skin light instead of dark, nose short and stubby instead of gorgeous and flat, and Pond's ads scream "DO YOU WANT TO BE WHITE?" and THAT, my friends, is messed up. messed the fuck up. pardon the french or don't, whatever, your choice, but seriously skin whitening cream is enough to make me want to boycott every skin-care company in the world cuz as near as I can tell they all make one and aggressively market it based purely on the idea that filipina women are unattractive unless they are as pale-skinned as possible and I seriously - really seriously - want to shake the young women buying that shit and tell them YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL. and then tell them that i'm not saying this as some sort of empowerment message but because I am freaking JEALOUS. and that's all.
what am i talking about again?
hold on. let's start over. this isn't going how i planned.
wait, what am i saying?
i think I was saying i am tired. that's it. i'm tired. those three night buses in a row are catching up with me and it ain't pretty. (speaking of not being pretty, why is everybody i interview freaking gorgeous?? it's another post as well as being a blatant stereotype but these women manage to have perfect makeup in the middle of the afternoon on a 95-degree day with humidity so high the walls drip and they don't break a sweat, their hair is perfect, their skin is beautiful and i'm standing in the middle of the train covered in sweat, my hair a mess, simultaneously sunburnt and ghastly pale (it's a feat) and realizing for the first time in my life that my cheekbones are wholly inadequate and let's not even talk about my eyes. and yet the women on the billboards look more like me than like anybody else I see, hair brown instead of black, skin light instead of dark, nose short and stubby instead of gorgeous and flat, and Pond's ads scream "DO YOU WANT TO BE WHITE?" and THAT, my friends, is messed up. messed the fuck up. pardon the french or don't, whatever, your choice, but seriously skin whitening cream is enough to make me want to boycott every skin-care company in the world cuz as near as I can tell they all make one and aggressively market it based purely on the idea that filipina women are unattractive unless they are as pale-skinned as possible and I seriously - really seriously - want to shake the young women buying that shit and tell them YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL. and then tell them that i'm not saying this as some sort of empowerment message but because I am freaking JEALOUS. and that's all.
what am i talking about again?
hold on. let's start over. this isn't going how i planned.
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